The Corsican Page 6

  Bently gestured with both hands to indicate he was finished and sat back in his chair. He had rushed through his preliminary proposal in a clipped military way, a sign of nervousness that had not been lost on Sartene.

  Sartene smiled, rose from his chair and walked to the French doors that opened onto the rear garden. He stood there for a full minute, his back to Bently.

  The young man had seemed nervous, but he had spoken well, choosing his words carefully, avoiding any insult. He had spoken of the Corsican milieu, the loosely knit organization of his countrymen involved in supposedly illegal activities. He had not called it the Corsican syndicate or criminal gang, terms so common in the French press. He had mentioned his friendship with the Guerinis, not his business connections. And he had spoken of his importing and exporting of gold and currency, not smuggling, which of course it was. He liked the man’s tactfulness. He was not sure he liked his proposal.

  Sartene turned back to face the younger man, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

  “When I came to Laos more than a year ago, I had the option of dealing with this merchandise you speak of,” he said. “At that time I chose not to do so. It’s a substance that has caused great harm to the people of this region for centuries. So much so that it’s probably an irreversible thing.” He shrugged. “So be it. That’s the way of things. No one man can change history. But he can choose not to be a part of a thing he finds wrong. So far I’ve found other ways to earn my bread for my family and my friends.” Sartene paused, looking at the others in the room. “I’m also a man who realizes that he must adapt to the realities of the world. But such an adaptation can follow many paths. As I’m sure you know, my new home will be part of a sizable rubber plantation which will have the benefit of contracts with a large French concern. This together with my other interests will provide me and my friends with more than we need to be financially secure, even if we are eventually forced to leave our new home. If I choose to accept your offer there will be more wealth, and, if your government is successful against the communists, there is also the possibility that our position here will be more secure.” Sartene raised one finger. “But only the possibility,” he added.

  Slowly he walked back to the chair and sat down. “Now,” he began again. “If we agree to your proposal we must place ourselves in direct conflict with Don Carbone. This doesn’t concern me greatly. We have never been friends and each of our friends in Europe have never been friends.” He paused, clasping his hands in front of him, then gesturing with them together. “What you do not understand is the Corsican way of doing business. We have always believed that each man has a right to earn his bread in whatever way is available to him. We also believe that no man has the right to deny another that opportunity. Perhaps, as you say, Carbone has friendships with men who worked with the Nazis. I fought with the French. But you’re wrong to emphasize this difference. I chose the French side, at least in part, because I believed the Nazis would give Corsica to the Italians and I believed we had a greater chance to one day free ourselves from the French than from the Italians and the Nazis, together. Others disagreed. Perhaps they believed Corsica would always be under someone’s control and that anyone would be better than the French. Who knows what they thought?” He shrugged his shoulders, indicating the argument was of little value. “Still, I would never stop one of my peers from earning his bread because we disagreed about politics. We Corsicans believe we are each a government to ourselves. If I were to deny Carbone or any other Corsican this right, it would only be because it involved the survival of my own organization.”

  Bently drew a deep breath. “I think a takeover by the communists would mean an end to your organization. Probably an end to Mr. Carbone’s as well. The communists are not very enamored with free enterprise.”

  Sartene laughed quietly. “That’s the argument we will have to think about,” he said, almost like a teacher speaking to a slow student who has suddenly discovered the root of a problem. “I’ll send word to you, perhaps within a day, certainly no more than a week. If my answer is no, I assure you I’ll do nothing to interfere with your efforts, provided you do nothing to interfere with mine.”

  Sartene was smiling at him, and Bently was forced to smile in return. He had spoken of Sartene’s importing and exporting of gold and currency and had asked him to add opium to his stock in trade. If he agreed he had promised the quiet support of his government and the French. The implication that problems for his other businesses might develop if he refused had been there as well. Sartene had now responded to that veiled threat with a warning of his own.

  “I understand that leaders within the milieu carry a gold medallion used for identification among each other and that a holder of that medallion is referred to as un vrai monsieur. I think I now understand the meaning of that title.”

  Sartene stood and extended his hand. Bently rose and took it. The others in the room who had been seated also rose.

  “During the war I worked with a member of your organization. He was a fool. I’m pleased to see that there are wiser men in your ranks as well.” He patted Bently’s arm, then extended his hand toward the door.

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Don Sartene,” Bently said.

  Sartene nodded and smiled. The formality pleased him.

  When Bently had left, Sartene seated himself behind his desk and motioned for the others to be seated. He placed his palms on the edge of the desk and leaned back in his chair. “Now tell me what you think.” He looked first at Auguste. The man had not changed since they first were together. He seemed ageless. Sartene suspected he always would.

  “I don’t like this drug business,” Auguste said, making a face to emphasize his displeasure. “It’s a dirty business on the other end. The opium goes to Marseille for processing into morphine. That’s all right, because it’s controlled by Corsicans. But after that it’s sold to Sicilians, who take it to Sicily to make heroin, and then to the American Mafiosi. They’re pigs and they’re greedy. Eventually they’ll want to control the morphine processing, and after they have that they’ll want to control the exporting. They’ll never be happy with having only part. They’ll want all. Someday they’ll come here and we’ll have trouble we don’t need.”

  Sartene’s eyes were fixed on Auguste’s face, noting every expression that emphasized the depths of his beliefs. He was quiet for several moments, only nodding his head in response.

  “And how do you feel about doing business with this drug?” he asked at length.

  Auguste shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands at his sides almost to shoulder height in an emphatic flourish. “I have no problem with that, Buonaparte. To me it’s the same as a farmer who grows corn even though he knows it will be used to make liquor that will be bought by men who drink too much. You can’t stop men from being fools. If opium isn’t the source of their foolishness, they’ll find something else to make fools of themselves with.”

  Sartene smiled at his friend. His view was very Corsican and one he held himself about mankind, although with some reservations.

  “And this man Bently? What about him?”

  Auguste made a similar gesture, only this time keeping his hands near his lap, allowing them to rise and fall. It was a less emphatic gesture, less certain.

  “He spoke well. Handled himself well. He offered us a business opportunity and gave us a little warning also. But he treated us like men. My question is not with the man himself. He’s not a fool like the other one from his organization that we knew in France.” Auguste looked directly at Sartene and rubbed his chest lightly, then gave him a small smile. “But I still don’t trust the Americans. One American promises one thing and then another one higher up says it can’t be done. It’s the way they do business.”

  Sartene rubbed his chin, then swiveled his chair toward Benito, Auguste’s brother. He was seeking their advice by order of their age, honoring the wisdom that went with their
years.

  Benito waited patiently, his hands clasped across a protruding paunch. He bore no resemblance to his brother. He seemed plump, but the layer of fat covered muscle, and his triple chin hid a neck as bull-like as Sartene’s son’s. His face was round and gentle, the features appearing to fall away from a flat, fleshy nose, and the only hair on his head was a two-inch band above his ears that decreased to one inch at the back of his head. He was fifty, but looked ten years older.

  Sartene looked at him for a moment, still digesting Auguste’s words, then nodded for him to begin.

  Benito’s face was always jolly when he spoke, his mouth always forming a smile, even when he was angry. Only his brown-black eyes showed his true emotion. Now they were pensive.

  “I agree with my brother,” he said. “But I think these problems can be overcome if you decide it’s a good thing. What worries me is Carbone and what he’ll do.”

  “You think he’ll make war on us.” Sartene spoke the words as a statement, not a question.

  “Eventually,” Benito said. He began to move one hand in front of him in a circular gesture, as though it helped him find the proper words. “He’s a man who has a big opinion of himself, and even though we have a right to seek business, I think because we didn’t go after opium when we first came here, he’ll think it’s his private thing. I don’t think he’ll care that we’re only after the noncommunist business. He’ll want it all. First he’ll just try to stop us from getting a supply. But if we already have the supply before he knows we’re in it, then sooner or later he’ll come at us.”

  There was no fear of a conflict in Benito’s words. Sartene recognized that. He also recognized, with pleasure, Benito’s subtle warning that if they chose to move ahead, they should guarantee their supply before allowing Carbone to know their intent. He turned his chair again, this time toward Francesco, and nodded to him.

  The time in Laos had been kind to Francesco. The business suits he now wore gave him an elegance that had not been present in the mountains of France, and it softened his hard but handsome features. He had also given up the practice of playing with a knife, sharpening it constantly almost as though it were a part of his being. But the knife was still part of his nature, and there was always one in the pocket of his well-tailored suits.

  Francesco, now thirty-five, had only touches of gray at the sides of his hair, and it added to his good looks, and provided instant popularity with the French colonial ladies of Vientiane.

  Now, in this matter of business, he seemed to revert slightly back to his days in the mountains. His eyes hardened almost contemptuously, and there was a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  “Everything that’s been said is true, Buonaparte,” he said, pausing for effect. “Except about Carbone and the Americans.” He waited for some response from Sartene, but there was none. “Carbone is nothing. He has men and power but he doesn’t know how to use them. He lives in his little world of grandeur. He struts around in his big white hat like he is some kind of king. It’s not enough for him to be considered un vrai monsieur, a respected leader in the milieu. He wants people to think he is a paceri, one of the biggest, who can impose his discipline on all.” Francesco gestured in disgust. “It’s you who hold that right. We all know that. Everybody but Carbone. When we came here less than two years ago, he was the force in smuggling, in currency. Now we are. We own more bars than he does. Soon our real estate holdings will be bigger. He is only dominant in opium because we haven’t touched it.” He smiled wickedly. “There’s a lot of money in this thing. More, maybe, than in everything else combined. But why should we give Carbone any of it? Why do what the Americans want and compete with the communists? That’s only to their advantage. Why not deal with both? The American puppets and the communist puppets? Then we have twice the profit and complete control.” He sat back in his chair and took a long drag on his cigarette, indicating he was finished.

  Sartene swiveled his chair in a semicircle to face his son, who was now seated next to Auguste. He gestured with his hand for him to begin.

  Jean slumped down in his chair, making himself look like some rocklike concentration of muscle. He was the youngest man in the room, and Sartene’s decision to seek his advice last was no slight.

  Jean gave a sideways glance at Francesco. He was not nearly as eloquent as this man he could not make himself trust, and knew he never would be. He spoke in choppy, distinct sentences almost as a defense against the flaw.

  “I agree. There’s much money and we should have part of it. But to deny Carbone a chance to earn his bread is wrong. If he fights”—he shrugged—“then that’s a different matter. But to take something from a man is one thing. To take something from him and then to cheat him also is wrong. It’s not the Corsican way. It’s not our way.”

  Jean stopped as abruptly as he had begun. He could feel the anger emanating from across the room, from Francesco. A small, almost indiscernible smile formed on his lips. There was nothing that pleased him more than annoying Francesco.

  The antagonism was not lost on Sartene. But he dismissed it in his mind. It was something he considered the natural order of things. Two young bucks competing. It had never gotten out of hand out of respect to him, and until it did he would not interfere.

  He pressed his palms down on the desk and pushed himself up, walked around his chair and stopped. He stared out the French doors into the garden for several minutes, offering a profile to those around the room. “As always, each of you offers honest advice,” he said without looking at them. “Now let me give you my thoughts, based on that advice.”

  The others in the room sat quietly, knowing that Sartene’s “thoughts” would really be a decision on what would be done.

  “Unlike Auguste, I have concerns about this opium thing. This very profitable but dangerous thing that comes from a beautiful flower.” He spoke slowly, still staring out the window. “When we first came here I made myself learn about it. Because of the profit involved and because I thought one day we might have to decide if we would deal with it.”

  Sartene turned and walked back to his chair, seated himself, and folded his arms on the desk.

  “It’s a thing that’s brought great wealth to many men. And it’s also brought suffering to the people of this region.” He began drumming the fingers of one hand on the surface of the desk, his eyes staring past the steady rhythmic movement. As always his mind was flooded with historical fact that seemed to synchronize with the problems of the present in his mind. He was a self-taught man, and as such relied heavily on that which he had forced himself to learn. History, especially, was a near compulsion with him.

  For a moment his mouth moved soundlessly, as if trying to find the needed words. “The Arabs brought this here in the fifth century. But the Chinese saw its dangers and only allowed it to be used for medicinal things. Later, in the fifteen hundreds, the Portuguese came and began selling it like tobacco. Then the Dutch did the same in all of Southeast Asia in the sixteen hundreds. And finally the British came two hundred years after that.” Sartene snorted, then looked at the others. “You know the Chinese banned the import of opium then because they felt it was destroying their people. Once their government even raided British ships in Canton Harbor and threw thousands of kilos into the sea. For that British warships shelled the Chinese coast for three years in what the Chinese historians call the Opium War.” He shook his head again and shrugged slightly. “Of course, the British won. And now we have the French. And finally today, the Americans.”

  Sartene stared at each of them in turn and jabbed one finger at the desk. “When men like you and me do these things we’re called criminals. Even if we do it because they ask us to, they still call us criminals.” There was an uncharacteristic sneer on Sartene’s face now. He spit the next words out almost as though they produced a foul taste in his mouth. “When the governments of Portugal and Holland and Britain did this thing, it was an act of commerce,” he said, waving one arm in a broa
d, expansive gesture. “Now for the French and the Americans it’s diplomacy.” He paused. “But for us it will always be something wrong, something criminal.”

  He folded his hands in front of him and seemed to stare past them for a long time. Auguste nodded his head, sensing Sartene’s mood.

  “Then we will do it, Buonaparte.” It was a question spoken as fact.

  “We have no choice,” Sartene said. “And people will suffer no matter what we do.”

  He sat back in his chair and offered a look of resignation to Auguste. “The American was right about one thing,” he said. “If the communists control the region it will be the end of our business.” He swiveled his chair and stared at Francesco. It was a look of admonishment, and Francesco’s face tightened under it.

  “And this is why we don’t deal with both sides,” he said. “What Jean said is true. You can take from a man, especially a stranger, or a man like Carbone.” He said the word “man” almost contemptuously. “But if you take from him you shouldn’t cheat him as well. But the better reason is that if we deal with the communists and they’re successful, we lose.”

  Francesco began to speak, but Sartene raised his hand, cutting him off. “I don’t mean that we go home as beggars with holes in our pockets.” He leaned forward, his face severe. “But I didn’t come here to make money and then go home to Corsica to live like some fat padrone. I came here to establish a life for my family and my friends. The milieu here is our milieu, no matter what that fool Carbone thinks. It’s for my son and his son and yours when you choose to have one. And for Auguste and Benito and their families, if they come here and join us.” His voice had become almost strident. “That’s what the milieu is. We have no country, no government. All that’s been stolen from us. We only have what we take for ourselves. To hell with the Americans and the French. We use them as they use us. And we take the money and we become stronger.”